Fortis est veritas
by underyourpatio
Summary: My take on Holmes' life at University. Has appearances from characters hinted at in the canon, Baring-Gould and real life figures. Please R/R
1. Chapter 1

**Fortis Est Veritas**

_Truth Is Strength_

Chapter 1

The weather, as usual was fairly grim in its outlook, and the clouds had already started to accumulate around the spires of Trinity College. The air was clammy and the pressure from the impending storm closed in on the chests of all that attempted a deep breath in the main city of Dublin. The streets around the college were much quieter now with most of the students having left for the obligatory summer break. All the fellow men who were reading subjects had disappeared within a day after their lectures had finished, leaving an empty cathedral like institute to gather dust over the coming months.

But, this was an exaggeration. It was nearly empty.

2 weeks after the end of term and still a handful of students had remained to wait for certain arrangements to be made before their departure. Ten young men were in the main common room, all having taken a spot as their own, eying the perimeters of their makeshift territories ready to pounce on the one man foolish enough to invade their personal space. All were waiting expectantly for their tutor to say whether the dean had decided they could stay on to continue their studies for doctorates and possible fellowship at the college. Nervously, they all took their predicament in their stride and waited, not necessarily patiently.

Michael Hamilton's unofficial spot was one of the few that commanded more than an armchair. He had a walkway straight down the middle of the common room. With a slow long stride, he would stop at the far end of the large room, turn slowly with one hand behind his back and the other tapping the side of his thigh, and walk back down with a nervous deliberation. His height was enhanced with the slow movement of his wandering, yet his broad shoulders made him seem very imposing, causing the lack of comment from the other men if he were to tread over enemy lines.

Hamilton's was about to turn again to head back the other way when a singular melody emanated from the far corner behind him. A long slow drone that, if he were in a better mood, he would have praised the culprit for. But today, his nerves were shredded and a melancholic tune played on a violin was not going to be a good thing for his mental constitution.

"Holmes, will you knock it off?" he said spinning around, jaw clenched.

The perpetrator looked languidly from his armchair near the empty fireplace. The man had long spidery limbs that seemed to gracefully set themselves awkwardly like a praying mantis; purposely placed in their angularity. Set back in the chair, the man had placed the violin under his chin and had deftly rested the bow on the strings, his hand holding it delicately and ready to play another note. He was a picture of relaxation, which annoyed Hamilton no end.

"I'm sorry Hamilton, knock what off?" the man spoke with an air of nonchalance and his voice was resounding, even in so short a sentence.

"The bloody violin. Put it down for god's sake!" Hamilton said pointing at the fiddle.

Holmes smiled coldly. "I shall, as you say, 'knock it off'. But there is no need to use such a vulgar colloquialism. Especially when one is waiting to see if one is to further one's education with the faculty of the languages."

"Holmes, don't antagonise me. Or you may not be able to play the instrument for much longer."

Holmes sat forward in his chair and sat up straight. "Well, I had better get in as much playing as I can then…" he was about to play another note when Hamilton started to storm over.

"Ey, ey, ey, Mike! Calm down!" a sandy haired young man jumped up from his own seat to get between the two. He spoke with a soft Irish accent which had an instant calming effect on Hamilton. "He's trying to rile you. He's safe in the knowledge that he's guaranteed to stay on."

Holmes stood up abruptly, placing his violin on the chair and stared at the blond man next to Hamilton. "I am not purposely trying to rile anyone. If I were, I wouldn't be so reserved." His steely grey eyes flicked between the two in front of him, regarding them with an erudite gaze. "And why am I guaranteed to stay on, Davies?"

Hamilton snorted in contempt and stormed out of the common room, sending a side table flying across the lap on an unsuspecting graduate who was trying to pass the time reading a large tome.

Davies sighed and turned back to Holmes, who was standing with his weight on one foot, arms folded, staring through his eyebrows at him like a hawk.

"Your finals were ridiculously good, Holmes. They'd be insane not to keep you on." Davies smiled as sweetly as his nervous state would let him. "Just be a bit more considerate towards those of us," he discreetly panned his arms across and behind him "who aren't so fortunately to be as smart as you."

Holmes' features stayed in their stone-like fashion, but his voice softened slightly. "I thought you said you weren't going to stroke my ego."

Davies shrugged slightly. "I'm not. I'm stating fact. And I'm amazed you got that."

Holmes turned around picked up the violin and sat it down on the floor next to the chair and then sat himself down. Setting himself back in the seat, he perched his elbows on the arms of the chair and clasped his pale hands elegantly in front of his aquiline featured face. "I'm not completely oblivious to comments playing off the emotions."

"Forgive me for suggesting you had no ability to feel emotion. But you haven't helped yourself."

"Forgive me for ignoring the fact that your accent makes you sound less intelligent than your finals score suggests. And that was markedly low."

Davies looked visibly injured at this remark and he made his way towards the upturned side table to right it. "That was unnecessary Sherlock Holmes."

"If you don't want a retort about you, don't make a comment about me."

Davies allowed himself to laugh at this ludicrous young man. A man he had known for 2 years during their studies at Trinity. They were in the same halls and he passed Holmes in the atrium for the duration of their stay. Holmes was a bit of a lone wolf, to be truthful and it seemed an effort to engage conversation with him. Initially, he thought Holmes was isolated due to starting alone at college. Being a sociable creature himself, Davies felt an innate urge to spark a verbal communication with him but it turned out that the young man was naturally a recluse and had a strange habit of knowing exactly where you had been and whether you had been waiting. Which was disconcerting, to say the least.

The door to the common room opened slowly and the room, though already silent, seemed to hold its breath as the dean himself swept in. His small deep set eyes scanned the room of suddenly incredibly alert students from behind thick rimmed spectacles.

"I have come to my deci - where's Hamilton?"

"Most likely in the quad sir."

"Well! Someone fetch him for god's sake."

Having been found by Davies, Hamilton skulked in and scowled at Holmes before setting himself down on an arm of a chair.

"Well, now that we're all here." The dean frowned slightly. "I can tell you who is staying on in the final post graduate positions working with the various faculties and who will be sent on to find jobs with their recent qualifications."

The students' hearts stopped.

"Hamilton, O'Reilly, Davies, Marks, Tarrant and Hamilton."

"Sir" came a rippling reply. Holmes smirked to himself.

The dean stood silent for a second, letting the dramatic effect take its toll.

"Congratulations. You are returning for Michaelmas term."

Holmes' couldn't help it but his jaw dropped. The whole room went into a sort of slow motion as the 6 successful post- graduates were congratulated with pats on the back and their hands shaken. His mind whirred to find an answer as to why.

_I know for certain the dean is in the masonic order and Tarrant and Marks' fathers were both freemasons, as are they from the way they have shaken the dean's hand. So that is why those two have managed it; the only way with their academic records. There was only one applicant for the engineering fellowship, so that explains Davies. I'm sure O'reilly is related to the main biology tutor's wife and..._

_Oh good lord, father's going to have my hide for this._

"Many condolences for those of you who I'm sad to say we are losing from our institution. May you continue to have success in your future careers."

The more gracious of the unsuccessful applicants were congratulating their successful peers, one even laughing jovially at his rejection. Davies and Hamilton walked over to Holmes, who had not moved an inch since the dean had made his announcement. Hamilton spoke "Sorry old chap. Hard luck."

"Hard luck…" Holmes said quietly. "Luck does not exist. It is not a tangible thing."

"Just saying commiserations old boy. No hard feelings, eh?" Hamilton was beaming. Holmes seethed.

"I just don't understand Holmes. You were a dead cert'." Davies' fairly cheerful demeanour had quelled in this new revelation.

Holmes feigned an uncaring shrug, though his insides were wrenching at his guts at the prospect of telling his father he had been unsuccessful. "Means nothing, does it really. Unforeseen circumstances can change any events probability."

"Mr Holmes. May I see you for a minute." The dean beckoned him over.

Holmes got up and tried to mask the fact his lower limbs had ceased to function normally. _So this is the effect of shock… interesting. _They headed just outside the door and the dean closed the oak panel behind them.

"Probably going to tell him commiserations personally." Davies' said, thrusting his hands in his pockets.

"Probably. Ah well." Hamilton's smile was threatening to split his face. "How about a celebratory drink, eh?"

"Yes Professor Hanslope?" Holmes said with as much bonhomie as he could muster considering he felt he could hit the man.

"Sorry about not being able to give you a place here for next year." The dean peered over the rim of his glasses. "But there were only 6 places."

"Indeed sir" Holmes replied curtly.

"And I had to give the places to those I deemed would benefit from further study here at trinity."

"Of course sir." Holmes' throat was beginning to get fairly dry with all the anger he was suppressing.

"So you were pretty much off my list."

Holmes didn't even acknowledge this with a murmur.

"I received a letter this morning. A reply to a communication I sent regarding your finals result, which were _excellent_ by the by."

_Then why didn't you take me on you sanctimonious-_

"And the letter was fantastic news, my boy. Fantastic news."

Holmes blinked. "For who, sir? You haven't mentioned who you sent the initial correspondence to."

"Why, my dear boy! _Oxford, _Holmes. The great institution!"

"Oxford?" Holmes' face was set in one of slight disapproval, but the slight twitch of his left brow was the only thing to suggest his inner excitement.

"They have not only offered you a place to study applied chemistry, but a scholarship!"

"You suggested me to Oxford?" Holmes said in an even tone. "And they've accepted me, purely on my finals score?"

"And the entire faculty's recommendation, I can assure you." The dean was grinning.

"But I thought-" Holmes stopped himself and took a deep breath.

The dean looked perplexed for a second before the realisation dawned on him. "You didn't think that I was not giving you a place here for that little formaldehyde incident? Come, come, dear boy! That was sorted. And besides," he put his hand on Holmes' shoulder. "That doesn't change the fact you are a phenomenal chemist."

Holmes shook his head as if to clear his head of what he thought was unreal. "I'm going to Oxford?"

"Yes. Congratulations. Though I am not glad to see your immense capabilities be taken away from trinity, but…"

"Thank you very much sir." Holmes said tersely. "I am also glad to hear I have been forgiven for that laboratory incident."

"Well, by me you have been. Not too sure about Professor Mallard. His eyebrows have still not grown back yet."

"I honestly thought he'd be a dead cert'! Honest to god I did!" Davies said in amongst the successful group.

"I think we all did. Shows that natural intelligence just isn't enough!" Hamilton smiled and clenched his fist in front of his face "Hard graft is what pays off, gentlemen."

"Surely his finals were an obvious show of hard graft."

"But I rarely saw him writing any reports!"

"Maybe he peeved someone down in the chemistry faculty?" O'reilly piped up.

They all looked at each other. "Mallard." They all stated matter-of-factly.

The door opened and Holmes walked in, shoulders rounded and a look on his face resembling that of someone whose world had just come to an abrupt end. Slowly and morosely, he made his way over to his violin, picked it up with its bow and headed back towards the door.

"Congratulations." He said in a monotone.

"Thank you Holmes." O'reilly smiled sympathetically.

"Can't win them all can you Holmes?" Hamilton said

Holmes turned to go, when he twisted back as if he just realised something. "Oh yes, there was something I wanted to say to you Hamilton." He held up his hand for the man to shake, and grinned a sly grin. "You should come visit me in Oxford sometime."

Hamilton's face visibly contorted into a picture of confusion as he shook Holmes' hand limply. "I thought you lived in Galway?"

Davies' eyes widened as he realised what Holmes' was inferring.

Holmes stood upright, shoulders regaining their poise, and sighed. "It appears Davies has worked it out. I'll let him explain, shall I?"

He shook the hand of the other's in the group and gave a curt nod. "Good day gentlemen." And with a flick of his coat tails, he wheeled round and sauntered out of the room.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The locomotive pulled into the station of Galway with a gentle hiss. Its carriage doors had already begun to swing open before the train came to a complete standstill and some of the more daring passengers had jumped down onto the platform to make their way to the main road. Holmes would have been one of these people, but a suitcase, a portmanteau and violin case were not easy to lug along, let alone leap from a train with. He had sent most of his luggage ahead of him when term ended, leaving himself with enough to last for a couple more weeks. What he hadn't counted on was the large number of books he had managed to accumulate over the past couple of years on varying subjects which he had managed to store sporadically around his small room at trinity. His brother had said that he would rue the day he discovered that his book collection outgrew the size of his bookshelf. And sadly, he was right. He had to buy the portmanteau especially to accommodate all the volumes he had found in his room; on the shelf, in the chest of drawers, under the bed… some were even used as a makeshift side table after he managed to break his initial piece of furniture by ironically piling too many books on top of it.

Holmes surveyed the relatively empty platform with fondness and yet, he had an underlying feeling of emptiness. He had grown up essentially on the outskirts of Galway, avoiding the city's hustle and bustle, having moved from Yorkshire when he was only an infant and the quiet within the busy harbour town, though fairly nauseating on occasion, was a reminder of days he used to wander the world, without a fleeting glimpse of a care. But it was also a reminder of how incredibly dull it became. By the age of eight, the thought of venturing into the petunia laden villages surrounding Galway and down the dusty country trails to the sea bored him out of his head. Cynicism, he overheard family members say, was a strange trait for a young boy to have, but cynical he was. Anything that purveyed quaintness set him virtually sick to his stomach at how sickly sweet it all seemed. So leaving home was not a difficulty.

But now he was back after nearly a year and a half since his last visit to the estate, and looking, without surprise, at a platform devoid of any familiar faces. His brother, Mycroft, said that he would be visiting for a fortnight and that he would gladly pickup Holmes in the four-wheeler. But, being such a "busy" man, Holmes was not in any way amazed to find that his brother was not there to welcome him. Without any difficulty, he made his way to the main road and set his minimal luggage down. Perching on the suitcase, he rested his elbow on his thigh and placed his head on his palm, a picture of sheer boredom. He couldn't even be bothered to get out his cigarette case.

His brother, like he was to an extent, was incredibly lazy. He had managed to get an undemanding job at a governmental office after finishing his time at university and relished the fact it involved a lot of time sitting down. Presumably behind a desk, but sitting nevertheless. Sherlock had never had the urge to pry into what his job entailed, purely because he couldn't care a jot, but he knew it suited Mycroft to a T.

This thought caused him to go off on a tangent, thinking how when they were younger games of hide and seek were tedious because Mycroft, being much older than him and his older sister Charlotte, would always volunteer to seek while the young Sherlock and Charlotte would hide in the main house. These small games would end by default, purely because Mycroft didn't bother to adhere to his job's title of seeker. These "childish antics" were quashed by the time Sherlock was about 7, purely from innate lethargy on his brother's part. Not that Sherlock minded. He preferred to sit in the library and see the dust accumulate on certain shelves.

Sherlock Holmes was brought out of his reverie by the arrival of a fairly old four wheeler that was clearly the one from the old homestead. He noticed that the wheels were not in the best of condition and the suspension had most definitely seen better days and yet, the canopy lining was virtually new. i_Father must be trying to make a hasty good first impression to someone… that or he's fired the coachman./i_

He sat in the most obvious way to show his contempt at being made to wait by setting himself in the most truculent sitting pose possible. Then, he waited for Mycroft to appear out of the side of the old cart, moving in his deliberate manner with his overcoat wafting outwards as he descended to the gravel. But he never emerged.

Out of the cart stepped a tall thin man, wearing a dark brown traveller's cap and wore a dark brown three piece suit that enhanced his well-defined frame, making him look the part of country squire. As he made his way over, his long slow stride caused his short cloak to ripple with the motion and the thinness of his face accentuated the reasonable broadness of his shoulders. His features were well defined with high cheek bones that emphasised the sharpness of his gaze. Sherlock recognised him immediately.

"Sherrinford." he said, not moving an inch. The eldest Holmes brother did not look terribly impressed.

"Sherlock." Sherrinford said monotonously, hands behind his back clasped in a tight grip. He frowned down and Sherlock looked at him, trying not to squint at the sun that was blasting its midsummer shine over his elder brother's shoulder. "Come on."

"Actually, I think I'll wait for Mycroft." Sherlock said turning to look away from the imposing figure. "At least I'd get a better reception."

"Well, I've come to collect you. So get up and bring your things over." The man turned on his heels and headed back to the carriage and within a matter of seconds, was gone inside the cab. Sherlock sighed exasperatedly and got up, brushing himself down before picking up his bags to give to the driver. It was quite obvious why Sherrinford was upset i_(wife trouble no doubt)/i_, but the fallout was what Sherlock was going to suffer. It was always the way.

After making sure his bags were secure, he clambered into the cab and settled himself down opposite his brother, who was staring straight at him.

Sherlock Holmes prided himself in the 19 years he had been alive, he had proven to many people –himself included – that he was not easily perturbed. But he was not infallible to uneasiness and the steely stare of his eldest brother was far too similar to a stare from his parents. He put on an air of arrogance and braved a comment that would catch Sherrinford unawares.

"No need to take out your frustration with Laura on the youngling, you know." He attempted to make it sound condescending, but it only had half of the effect. "I think the hat suits you quite nicely."

Sherrinford rolled his eyes slightly "I'm not even going to humour you by asking as to how you knew that."

Sherlock smirked inwardly, knowing he had one up on his brother already.

Sherrinford was an intelligent man. A highly intelligent man whose ability knew no bounds and was a natural leader of men. He had an amazing faculty for organisation and recalling facts of general knowledge to almost that of a savant's, but, unlike his younger brothers, that was where his intelligence lay and nowhere else. He was much more overt than his male siblings, but regularly he would have been flummoxed by his younger brothers' deductions and observations where he saw nothing, and would resign himself to their greater astuteness. Mycroft thought the man far too modest for his own good, and for nearly three years in Sherlock's early teens told him not to try and outwit Sherrinford, for it was dampening his other abilities that were far greater than Sherlock's or Mycroft's own. When he did outwit Sherrinford, he got such a verbal hiding from his father that the threat was too great to contemplate the thought of repeating the act.

Sherlock expected more of a response though… so he pushed a little further to weaken that gaze. "If you're annoyed at Mycroft for leaving you in the lurch-"

"He is back at the house, waiting with father. There was something they had to discuss." His metallic glare had not faltered for a second.

Sherlock looked at his hands that were in his lap. "I still don't think it's right for you to release your anger-"

"FOR GOD'S SAKE BOY!" Sherrinford suddenly bellowed, causing Sherlock to jump at the sudden outburst. "This is nothing to do with misplaced frustrations! I am angry at you because of your current situation!"

"My situation?" Sherlock drawled derisibly.

"Father received a letter this morning regarding your continued studies application to stay on at the college." Sherrinford gave a short laugh, completely devoid of mirth. "Unsuccessful."

Sherlock said nothing and stared at his brother.

Sherrinford shook his head in utter despondency. "Do you know how much father wanted you to stay on? You only had to do the bloody work, man!"

"I did the work, brother! How dare you insinuate that I didn't?" Sherlock burst out.

"Because you are a lazy shirker who would prefer to lounge around all day smoking, letting things be given to him on a silver platter." Sherrinford snapped. "Always have been."

Sherlock gave a low cold chuckle. "I believe you are mixing me up with Mycroft i_dear brother…/i_" the final two words were dripping with such scorn, Sherrinford virtually snorted in disbelief.

"And yet!" he said without mercy. "He has a good job with a decent position. i_You_ /i essentially half of what you can achieve." Sherrinford sighed "why did you let this chance run through your fingers?"

With that, the two brothers sat in silence. Sherlock could not stand having his brother act this way towards him, but he understood why. Sherrinford was ten years old when Sherlock came into the world and throughout Sherlock's childhood, Sherrinford was like the third guardian. Mycroft was his brother, Sherrinford more like an affectionate uncle because the age difference was so vast.

Sherlock sat forward in his seat and spoke softly "did you receive no other letters? Regarding my education?"

Sherrinford shook his head slowly as he stared out of the window at the built up streets. "No, why?" Sherlock noticed he had taken to a snarky mood as opposed to his regular talkative self.

"Well… another letter may explain why I'm no longer going to study in Dublin."

Sherrinford looked at this boy – for that was what he was. Barely been shaving two years and he thought he was the master of the world – and exhaled loudly. "Oh? More excuses I see."

Sherlock leant back and smiled. "I think studying at oxford's a pretty good excuse." He watched Sherrinford's head turn slowly to face him once more, but this time with eyes wide, the grey irises encasing rapidly retracted pupils. "Don't you think?"

"What?"

The face of the young man spread into a grin as he folded his arms in an act of triumph, raising his eyebrows in an effort to emphasise his statement. Sherlock then watched as his brother burst into a fit of hearty laughter. "Do you mean," Sherrinford asked "that you let me verbally attack you for no reason?"

"You didn't let me get a word in!" Sherlock laughed, relieved to see Sherrinford in such levity once more.

"Why didn't you just say, you stupid boy?" Sherrinford said, leaning forward to cuff Sherlock jokily around the head.

"I was going to announce it to everyone tonight at dinner, but no," he feigned belligerence "i_you/i _ had to beat it out of me and _ruin _my brilliant declaration!" with each exclamation, he theatrically waved his arms about as much as he could inside the cab.

"You and your dramatics!" Sherrinford smiled. "They will be the death of me!"

"yes, they have an uncanny effect of causing cardiac arrest in those who are around the 30 year mark… you have been warned."

Sherrinford leant back and took off his cap; dark thin wisps of his cropped hair betrayed the rest of the tamed mane, his manner returning to the sensible character Holmes recognised so well. "So… Oxford."

Sherlock just gave a nod.

"I didn't know you applied."

"I didn't… they, how shall I say, referred me." Sherlock shrugged slightly. "When I say they, I mean the trinity natural sciences faculty."

Sherrinford was silent for a while, and his natural countenance of silent contemplation returned as he looked out of the cab window at the hazy midsummer scene of countryside. "Father will be pleased."

Sherlock hummed an agreement.

Sherrinford stared at him from the corner of his thin eyes and his expression turned to that of mock derision. "We need to get you to a decent tailor. Those rags are simply falling off of you."

Holmes jumped down onto the gravel driveway, looking up at the house querulously. He hadn't been here for 18 months… and so much had changed. The front had been completely redone and the main flower beds had been turfed over. Also, the outer walls for an extra wing had been built on the east side. Being out of the main city, the house had a comfortable amount of green space around it. An unintentional act of solitude.

"Father's been busy…" he muttered to himself, and yet Sherrinford responded.

"Father has given me responsibility for the entire estate. What I say is the final decision." He smiled at his superior status, but Holmes grimaced slightly.

"Did you suggest that?" Holmes asked evenly and Sherrinford glared at the back of his head.

"No, actually. The mad bugger said I should be in charge now. 'I was in charge when I was your age.'" Sherrinford said the last part in a huffy pompous tone.

Sherlock smiled and continued the mimicry of his father whilst going to collect his bags. "'For back in myyyy day…'"

"Indeed." Sherrinford said a shadow of a smile on his lips. He then rapped on the door of the carriage. "Perkins, you can take the cab back round."

"Right you are Mister 'Olmes" and Sherlock had barely stepped away from the coach before it took off again. Cursing to himself, he noticed Sherrinford having already made his way to the door and wasn't going to offer to help. Not that he needed it.

"Hurry up." Sherrinford said, with no malice, but it reminded Sherlock far too much of his father to be a completely inert order.

"No need to bark." Sherlock said snidely as he passed Sherrinford at the door, the corners of his lips curling into a knowing smile.

"Master Sher-hlock!" came a shrill call from the main hallway of the Holmes' manor. It was the House keeper that had been there as long as Sherlock can remember, her soft lingering Irish tongue adding an extra 'H' to her soft 'R's.

"Mrs O'Leary." Sherlock said in a level tone.

"'tis good to see you back, to be sure. Pleasant trip I hope sir?"

"It was Ireland's rail service's finest." He said plainly. Fortunately the sarcasm was lost her.

"Good. I shall get Timothy to take your bags up." And she bustled off to find the young pageboy. Holmes suddenly realised he hadn't had a cigarette for nearly 2 hours and he was beginning to need one. Even the act of stepping into the large hallway settled a begrudging mood on his shoulders. He wanted to get back to his books, observing the various people that entered the library and knowing what they have been doing, what they were going to do and why they were going to do it, purely from looking at their appearance and face. It gave him something akin to comfort, knowing he had this superiority over everyone he met. Except maybe Mycroft. He took out a cigarette from his case and in one action had it lit and was exhaling smoke.

"Is father in his study then?" he asked Sherrinford finally, who had hung his cloak and hat on a free peg.

Sherrinford looked at the cigarette between his younger brother's fingers disparagingly. "Oh _really_ Sherlock, how common."

"I don't consider it i_common/i_." Sherlock said, looking at the custom made roll of tobacco with a hint of scorn. "Hand made."

"They smell utterly foul." Sherrinford wrinkled his nose.

"I like strong tobacco." Holmes said mockingly. But a look of astonishment swept across his features as Sherrinford swiped it practically from between his lips. The older man inspected the brand name.

"Hmm… quite upmarket, this tobacconist." He said pointedly. He then proceeded to look Sherlock up and down. "And yet, no money for decent attire I see…"

Holmes scoffed and held the ends of his frock coat outwards as if partially curtseying. "It does its job. Students aren't meant to look wealthy, only studious. Hence the word 'student'. You still haven't answered my question."

"Yes, he will be. And I suggest you be discrete when mother greets you. I'm not sure she knows."

"My word!"

A call from the top of the stair well made the two brothers spin round to look up at a tall, striking figure, silhouetted by the afternoon sun coming through the gold tinted windows behind. The figure was a familiar sight as it made its way down to their level. Slowly and demurely, with long elegant strides, Violet Holmes Sr. held out her arms gracefully towards her youngest son.

"You are at least 2 inches taller than the last time I laid eyes on you," She placed her hands on the young man's forearms and smoothed out his rumpled frock coat. "Judging by your trousers of course and the fact the frock coat you're wearing is practically above your knee. They fit you so well the last time you were here." She smiled at Sherlock tenderly, but did not go to embrace him.

She knew not to. Her two daughters were very open in their affection for each other and their mother, but the boys had never found it very easy to accept human contact. Which saddened her, but knew it was all part of being an intellectual; you may have all the knowledge in the world and as much intelligence to outwit the lord himself, but you compromise on the knowledge of the human soul. It was a miracle that Sherrinford had even found a wife and carried on the family name, or his father would have been apoplectic.

With a flash, she wiped this thought from her mind and put on her most motherly expression. "How was your journey, darling?" But she had to try and conceal her surprise when her youngest son, the most socially awkward of the three took her hands in his in the most caring expression of affection she had ever seen him display.

"Hello mother. It was hellish, if you pardon my language." Sherlock smiled at his mother's reaction to what he thought was his comment. "But that is truly the only way to describe such a tumultuous, hazardous and laborious journey."

Violet Holmes turned to walk towards the main sitting room. "You can tell me all about it then, can't you. After" she swivelled around in a turn that would have impressed a prima ballerina "you have spoken with your father." And she carried on into the sitting room and out of sight.

The young Holmes stopped and grabbed his brother's arm as he went to follow her. "She knows!" He hissed.

"Apparently so. I don't know why you're so worried. You have an excellent excuse for once." Sherrinford allowed himself to smile a devilish grin and continued to walk into the sitting room, leaving his brother in the hall. Holmes sighed and turned about face and made his way towards the room where few dared to tread: His father's study. As he did, with each step flashes of memories when he was sent to see his father about something he had done or in some cases he hadn't done, all so his father could try and "knock some sense" into the little boy who was bored. He was never beaten as a child (at home at least) for his father didn't believe in such a punishment, but was verbally berated at every turn. It was far worse than a hiding, having to be told after every action that you are disappointment, even when, by your own standards, it was a pride worthy action.

Holmes got to the study door and found himself stopping before attempting to go in. He paused; his heart skipped a beat as he held up his hand to knock on the large oak door. _How ridiculous, a grown man feeling apprehension at the thought of knocking on a door. _He brought his wrist back to start his admission tap, when the door fell away from his arm and opened slowly. Holmes launched himself towards the hinge side of the door, muted panic on his face as he kept an expletive just behind his teeth. He could hear two very similar voices as the door opened fully, his back pressed up firmly against the panelling of the corridor.

"And shall I tell him to go straight to you when he arrives?" said a young man's voice, heavily oxbridgian and coaxing in its lilt.

"Yes, I want him in here answering to me before his feet have barely touched the sitting room carpet." The last part was obviously a bellow that the older version of the young man's voice had managed to control into a menacing growl. Sherlock groaned inwardly.

A lofty man walked out and closed the door. His girth was not massive, but considerably more since Holmes last saw him, his dark chestnut hair the only real gauge as to the man's real age. He turned to click to door shut when his eyes fell on the rigid form of his younger brother who had seemed to have plastered himself to the oak panelling on the walls.

"How long have you been here?" Mycroft Holmes' face flashed anger as he watched his younger sibling unfurl from the tight shape he was initially in.

"Literally only 10 seconds." Sherlock drawled.

"Not attached to the woodwork,i _in the house./i_" Mycroft whispered forcefully, his stare matched with Sherlock's own flinty gaze.

"Near on fifteen minutes." Sherlock said peering at his pocket watch.

"Well, pretend you have just got back and go in there _now._" Mycroft said and tapped on the door.

They heard a call come from within the study akin to that of subdued roar. Mycroft turned the handle and let the door swing open.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Holmes walked through the door frame into the spacious room that had so many memories attached to it. The walls were covered in various mementoes of his father's success during his time in the army and during his hunting trips when he was much younger. The floor was covered in a Turkish rug that still seemed to glow with the rich colours; deep crimsons, warm shades of yellow and gold and piercing specks of green-blue. The dark walnut desk was ornate to the point of extravagance, the legs intricately carved in faux Greek patterns with oak and mahogany inlays running all the way through the wood. Behind it stood the giant figure of a man, hands behind his back standing next to an elaborate fireplace. His dark black hair reflected a blue halo in the bright light from the side window, thought the hair had become much more flecked with white since the last time his son had seen him and there was a bright white streak at his temples. His face, like his sons had chosen to be, was clean shaven and the tides of age had left ridges and wrinkles around his dark brown eyes, which were boring into Sherlock like two ice picks. His square jaw helped counteract gravity's attempts at giving him jowls, and his broad shoulders gave the man a threatening towering presence, which was accentuated even more by the light blazing in from the second window behind him. Sherlock thanked the fact his mother was right that the boy had grown a couple more inches.

"Stand there." The man said, looking down his long hooked nose at his son and he pointed with one of his large hands at a spot just in front of the desk.

Siger Holmes was a man not to cross or rankle, for he had the temper of a rudely awakened bull and the roar of a violent storm. He had a way with words and the delivery was of the upmost importance, and could chill you to the bone with the pressure of guilt. Many said that the man could have made a man feel more guilt-ridden than Judas Iscariot, but he only did it to get his message to hit home; for someone not to repeat the action that upset him. It was far more effective than beating sense into someone, and pugilism was so plebeian.

Sherlock stood, shoulders back and head held high; he was not going to be intimidated by this man. He had dealt with pub landlords that were worse, let alone the opponents in various boxing matches.

"What," his father said in a sinister manner "have you got to say for yourself?"

Holmes opened his mouth to speak when his father picked up a sheet of foolscap from the side of his desk and slammed it on the portion of desk in front of Sherlock.

"I do not expect to receive letters," his father said with daunting menace. "Of this nature regarding any of my children, especially my sons."

Sherlock quickly scanned the letter. The general flavour was that of apology, resentful dismissal and official adieus. If Sherlock wasn't safe in his knowledge, he would be feeling the dread pressing against him.

"Father, I resent the fact such a letter has been sent to you, but there is a reason for it."

His father gave a contemptible sniff before leaning over the table top. "If you are about to give me a pathetic excuse for this appalling state of affairs, I do not wish to hear it." His cheeks were flushed red, the anger in his eyes threatened to overflow into his speech. "The impression I get is that it must be your work ethic the college has a problem with. Lazy, lackadaisical and frankly disrespectful of the fortune you have to be in the place you were."

Sherlock let the words wash over him like a shower of ice that runs through your hair and trickles over your scalp.

"I did the work to their satisfaction, father, even more so in the case of my finals this year. I don't see how work ethic would come into it."

"Don't answer back, you insolent boy." His father was about to lose his rag completely.

That was the final straw. Here he was, a man of nearly 2 decades, still being called a child. To his father, he was still the boy in short trousers that never followed in the success of his brothers. And now, he had a fantastic piece of achievement and the man just wanted to grind him into the dirt like a wretched underling instead of hearing about it.

All the frustration Holmes had ever harboured whilst trying to talk to his father spilled over his normally calm countenance.

"How on earth am I supposed reply to your statements then?"

"How dare you speak to me like that!" his father roared so loudly, Sherlock felt the shockwave of unfettered fury on his skin.

"What do you want me to say then?" Sherlock bellowed and his father was visibly taken aback. "I'm sorry you don't want to hear my excuse?" He paused to take a deep breath. He brought his voice down low, a steady voice, powerful in its conveyance. "Do you want me to grovel? Because I refuse to be an obsequious toad. What I do not appreciate the most is the fact you consult Sherrinford and Mycroft before talking to me. I do not see why they had to be brought in on the matter as it is my affair and has nothing to do with them."

His father breathed in loudly, his face still contorted with the rage he had just displayed, but his eyes were looking at Sherlock differently; a wary glower that Holmes had never seen in his father before. Siger Holmes spoke slowly. "What is your excuse?"

Holmes stared at his father and pulled out from his inside pocket a letter. Without diverting his gaze, he unhurriedly pulled the sheet out of the already open envelope and unfolded it. He finally broke his glare and proceeded to read the message.

"Dear Mr Holmes,

We have received from Professor George Hanslope, the dean of Trinity College Dublin, a glowing reference as to your recent academic successes. We are pleased to inform you-" Holmes paused slightly to look at his father's expression, which was stony and not at all revealing. "That after substantial consideration of your ability and praise from your college, we wish to offer you a scholarship to our institution at Queens College to continue your studies into applied chemistry. We look forward to your arrival at the beginning of the Michaelmas term. Further information regarding costs for your place will be conferred to you before the start of the term.

Yours sincerely,

Professor James Fotherington-Brown.

Dean of Queens College, Oxford."

Silence filled the large study like a noxious gas. It encased the two men in a shroud of nothing, a vacuum of what should be said. The older man spoke first, his voice steady in its reticence. "You have got a place at Oxford."

Sherlock, despite himself, nodded dumbly.

"A scholarship."

"Yes."

The voices were clipped, the responses were sharp and to the point. Like every other conversation they had.

"When do you start?" his father looked at him, the strain was obvious to keep eye contact.

"I should be expected to be there for mid-September. I shall have to look for some rooms. Apparently all the lodgings provided are full."

His father gave a curt nod and walked around the desk. "We shall deal with the costs when we get to that hurdle. For now, I suggest you revel in your accomplishment." Standing in front of Holmes, looking at each other sternly, Siger held out his hand. "Well done."

Holmes took it, his thin hand enveloped in the massive paw of his father and Siger gave it one congratulatory shake. Holmes noticed that they were at the same eye level now, and realised what the look his father gave him was.

Acquiescence.

Their hands fell to their sides and Siger turned to go back behind his desk. Without another word, Sherlock walked towards the door and as he placed his hand on the handle, he turned round to see his father looking out of the window, standing like an officer surveying his troops. Quickly and deliberately, Holmes opened the door and closed it with a slam behind him.

Holmes walked back through the entrance hall and saw his elder brother sitting on the stairwell, his elbows leaning on the steps further up.

"May I ask," Sherlock turned on his brother, hands on hips. "As to what you and father discussed before I was practically heaved into his study?"

Mycroft stood up steadily and looked at his brother's similar steely eyes with a look that would have made Goliath quiver. "What I could do to sort this inexcusable situation out."

"Actually, brother, there is a goddamn good excuse for this situation." Sherlock said, craning his neck so he was practically nose to nose with Mycroft. "I have a place in another College that I will be going to. Clearly the postal service is appalling around here. Or that the new college deems just sending letters that are my business to me a satisfactory amount of communication."

"They sent one to father because he pays for the fees."

Sherlock leant back slightly so he looked down the bridge of his long nose at his brother. "What did you discuss?"

Mycroft folded his arms. "Whether I could get you a job at the governmental offices. My reference would be enough to get you anywhere."

Sherlock threw his arms up half-heartedly, his face an utter picture of dejection. "Mycroft! You know how I feel about working in places like that!"

"It would have got you out of a sticky dilemma though wouldn't it!" Mycroft said exasperatedly.

Sherlock shook his head and put his hand to his mouth in mock concern. "To think… if I hadn't got in to the college… what a horrible thought!" his eyes were glinting with inner laughter.

"Where is that then?" Mycroft sighed jadedly, eyes half closed. Back to the juvenile dramatics it seemed.

Holmes grinned. "I shall tell you in the sitting room. And besides, I think I need a whiskey."

"Fine. Pour me one while you're at it." Mycroft said heading towards the front room.

Sherlock held up his hands as if working out the size of a yard in front of Mycroft. "The sedentary lifestyle's catching up with you then?" he said mockingly, suppressing a smile that threatened to spread across his thin lips.

Mycroft batted Sherlock's arms out of the way. "Really Sherlock, these churlish comments are most unappealing."

Holmes carried on into the sitting room where his mother, Sherrinford and his sister Charlotte were sitting conversing quietly. Charlotte upon seeing him, got up and gave him a hug. Sherlock awkwardly complied with the social action and patted her back lightly.

"Hello Charlotte."

"Sherlock, I'm so glad to see you're back safe and sound." Charlotte was beaming.

Sherlock nodded. "I promised I would return in one piece."

She tapped the side of his face condescendingly, "yes, well done." And she turned to sit down next to her mother to continue their discussion.

"Where's Laura then, Sherrinford?"

"I think she's upstairs. Having a spell of insomnia and god knows what… has really knocked her for six."

Sherlock went over to the decanters and poured himself and Mycroft a glass of whiskey and soda. He turned to see his mother looking at him accusingly, her speckled chestnut hair framing the deep set grey eyes he had inherited. "Yes mother?"

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Don't be facetious. What did your father say?"

Sherlock sauntered over to the sofa and sat himself down, crossing his long legs as he lounged back.

"Well, the last thing he said to me was well done." He took a swig from his glass, eyeing his eldest brother who was beginning to look a little frustrated at his brother's impertinence.

His mother looked a little surprised. "Oh? What for? Surely not being kicked out of trinity?" This had the desired effect she wished as Sherlock nearly choked on his drink.

"No, no…" he said, recovering from nearly having a coughing fit. "For my acceptance into Oxford."

His mother looked at him and smiled warmly. "Well done darling."

Holmes knew that his mother had worked it out as soon as she had seen him in the entrance hall. She knew about the Trinity debacle and deduced from his body language, dialogue and reaction to her direct comment about seeing his father that all was fine. He was a good actor, but she was the one person he could never fool; his calmness was genuine, and she knew it.

Charlotte clapped demurely as she congratulated him and Mycroft came over, pulled him up from his seat and pumped his arm in felicitation. After the verbal applause, they all settled back down to finish the discussion that was initially going on before Sherlock made his entrance. It turned out to be about an upcoming wedding and Holmes sat, looking out of the large window onto the front lawn, cogitating.

He began thinking about his place at Queens, what various chemical studies he endeavoured to look into and the thought of the largest library a university could offer. But his thoughts spasmodically turned to the end of his time at the establishment. What would he do? What honest to god use was a chemistry masters unless you wanted to continue into research? That would lead to a professorship, and most likely becoming a lecturer.

Where was the adventure in that?

He wanted to be in the hustle and bustle of a city, not the relative quiet of a university town. But the London universities, though unfounded in fact, seemed to focus predominantly on medicine. The thought of devoting his life to regimented study was repellent unless it was something stimulating, which, to be perfectly honest, a life of repetitive chemical teaching was not.

What the hell would he do with himself?

At this, he felt a lurch in his stomach. He looked at the bottom of his whiskey glass and sat, contemplative. He could feel eyes were on him and he ventured a glance over to Mycroft. It was he who was watching him, eyes drooping slightly, but keeping is gaze intently on his younger brother. Sherlock looked away and downed his drink. He brusquely got up and walked out of the sitting room.

"Sherlock? Sherlock I just asked you whether… oh that damned boy." Sherrinford sighed as he flumped back into his seat.

Their mother watched after her youngest son as he disappeared from view to go up the stairs. "He never was one for conversations, Sherrinford you know that." And then she said to no one in particular "He has a lot on his plate at the moment…"

She quickly turned to Mycroft. "Go and keep him busy."

Mycroft looked pained, but knew it was important. He got up, placed his half-drunk glass on the side board and made his way to find Sherlock.

Violet sighed to herself, a realisation that had been a long time coming. He couldn't stand being here. It suffocated his mind and kept him forced in, like a caged bird in a casing far too small for its own wings. She could see his mind whirring away fruitlessly whilst on the sofa, much more than it ever had done when he was younger. The outside world had in turn fuelled his urge to see more of it. He hadn't kept in contact whilst he was gone; he wanted to sever his ties with Galway.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Mycroft did not have to think where to find where Sherlock had gone. It was one of two places that were deemed to be his natural habitat: his room or the library. And considering all the books Sherlock owned will have been read and placed back in his room by the page boy, it was quite an elementary deduction to say he was in the library.

Indeed he was. Sitting cross legged in a bucket chair by the window, his limbs folded expertly into an obviously comfortable position, was Sherlock. He looked as though he had been there all afternoon, meditating on a lily pad of cushions and wood. Open on his lap was a copy of Gray's anatomy on the nervous system section of the tome, with a detailed picture of a sliver of brain showing the medulla oblongata, the optic tracts and difference in grey and white matter.

However, the boy wasn't looking at the book at all. His elbows were dug into his thighs whilst his hands cradled his face, covering his eyes with his palms as if he were trying to press his hands through his head.

Mycroft frowned at this perplexing behaviour, but he had seen his brother like this before. Right before the end of his time at the grammar school, he went very insular and self-destructive to a degree. But, Mycroft thought, if he could come out of it once, he can bloody well stop himself becoming like it again.

Bringing another chair over, he sat down opposite his brother and leant forward in his seat as far as his build would let him. Sherlock still hadn't noticed he was there, his sinewy forearms showing from the top of his disturbingly large frock coat sleeve.

"Sherlock."

Holmes' head sprang up, eyes red from the pressure he was exerting on them with his hands, looking thoroughly beside himself.

"What's wrong now?" Mycroft said wearily, though the care behind his words crept through.

Holmes closed his eyes slowly and held his forehead up with his left hand, his right turning the page in the book. "I'm so… so very bored."

"Everyone gets bored. That's the banality of life I'm afraid." Mycroft said tersely.

"Banality." The younger man's voice had become laced with cynicism and contempt. "Humdrum… prosaic, everyday actions… is that what boredom is going to end up being? A natural part of a routine?"

Mycroft didn't know how to respond.

"If so, then I want to deny it that privilege. I want to, but I can't, for I know that it will slither its way back through the cracks like a viper… and when its fangs sink in…" He laughed coldly at his own metaphor.

Mycroft noticed Sherlock gently massaging the inside of his left elbow absent-mindedly as he spoke.

"And when they sink in, you must administer an antidote?"

Sherlock's head snapped to face his brother and shot him a look of pure poison. Slowly he turned his head back to the book he was attempting to read and turned a page disconsolately.

"So bored, bored, bored, bored, BORED!" he virtually screamed through his clenched teeth, turning a page ferociously with each exclamation, eventually flipping the back book cover over and launching it over the left arm of his chair onto the floor. It landed with a dull slap which echoed around the virtually empty room, Holmes resting his mouth on his fist, glaring at the far wall.

Without a word, Mycroft stood up and walked over to the side table and brought it over. Setting himself down, he saw Holmes eyeing the table's movements as it was put in front of him and he surveyed an old familiar battleground. He glanced up at Mycroft from his moody perch.

Mycroft tapped the side of the table lightly. "Chess?"

Five minutes later, the two brothers were sitting, leaning over their half of the chessboard, both tapping their temples in thought. Holmes liked chess. It was a very definite game, yet within it, it had so many subtleties. So many stratagems and so many possibilities that could come from a defined rulebook as to how each piece moved. It symbolised everything he loved; sheer force of mind and nuances of brilliances. All from simple manoeuvres.

Mycroft lifted his kingside bishop and placed it down near Holmes' left flank. "I bumped into Laura on the way up here."

Laura Holmes was Sherrinford's wife of nearly four years. She had become a part of the household and had agreed to take up residence in Galway to help run the estate with Sherrinford. Quiet and elegant, she made a lasting impression on the family but kept to herself when family matters were brought up, which is why she was so well accepted; it wasn't the best idea to try and out do the matriarch.

"Small talk Mycroft?" Sherlock said, as he took a lone pawn on the right side.

"I was a little concerned. I wouldn't be saying it otherwise." Mycroft paused with his finger still on the rook he had just moved. "She looked like she hadn't slept for days."

"Well, I saw her on the landing as I came in. I'd say she hasn't had a full night's sleep in nine days, and is possibly taking a herbal remedy of hibiscus oil and lemon balm judging by the stain on the top of her left sleeve. The only way to get a stain there is if you drink and it splashes over the rim, you see, and she is left-handed. Also, I believe Sherrinford may have mentioned something of insomnia as I went into the sitting room. Hurry up and finish your move."

"It was actually as you were pouring drinks. You need to be more precise with such things."

Sherlock scoffed slightly. "I knew it was when I was pouring drinks. I would have corrected myself." And he moved a knight to take the bishop that was threatening his first line of defence.

"Indeed." Mycroft said. "But remember Sherlock, you must look passed the obvious of what you observe." And with that, he picked up his rook, and gracefully set it down where Sherlock's knight was and placing the young Holmes in check. Sherlock stared at Mycroft.

"From what I have observed in the past six hours I have been here, I can tell you that Sherrinford and Laura have been in arguments recently over the prospect of having children. I can also tell you that Laura is thinking about moving back to Liverpool to live with her parents for a while and I am amazed that the glaringly obvious fact that she is thinner than you are indicates she blames herself for the lack of an heir for Sherrinford."

Sherlock looked upwards for a bit as if watching the pattern of his brother's observation materialise in front of him. "Yes, I did observe after his initial reaction to me in the carriage had died down, he was subconsciously fiddling with his traveller's cap, which I deduced earlier that Laura disapproved of, most likely said in a heated argument about a far more important subject. Also, when I came in he looked down almost hastily at the point in the hall where outgoing luggage would be placed if it were to venture outdoors, suggesting he was half expecting to see his wife's bags. But, from what I've seen, I would have to disagree with you with the shape she's in."

"How so?"

"Because sleep deprivation can cause such fluctuations in one's weight." Sherlock said, contemplating his counteracting move to prevent his king from dying a horrible death.

"Yes, but you have to take into account the cause of her not being able to sleep." Mycroft leant back slightly as he watched his brother place his bishop between his king and the threatening rook. "The arguments, or rather the subject has probably kept her awake at night."

"I suppose. She seemed positively miserable."

Mycroft nodded solemnly. "It's crucial one feels happy in one's own skin. But it appears that it much more of a problem for womankind-"

"And they blow it out of proportion" Sherlock sighed and indicated for Mycroft to play his next move.

Mycroft sighed. "We'll leave this topic there, I think." He said leaning forward and moving his queen to defend a solitary knight.

"Thank you…" Sherlock said, rolling his eyes and taking Mycroft's rook. "I was waiting for you to realise what an unconsidered conversation this was…"

Mycroft quickly counteracted with his queen moving into enemy territory, causing a bishop to be in great danger of being cut down. "I see you've lost some weight."

Holmes truculently picked up a pawn and placed it down to stop the offending royal. "I see you've gained some weight…"

Mycroft stopped for a bit. "At least I can admit that I've put on a few pounds."

Holmes was tempted to answer with a snide comment, but stopped himself. He sighed quietly. "I have lost a bit of weight, yes."

The elder brother watched as Sherlock averted his gaze to look at the floor, in an act that some would consider sheepish. "Oh? A look of guilt."

Holmes looked at him out of the corner of his eye, brow furrowed.

"So this state you're in is your own doing?" Mycroft said playfully and watched his brother lean over to take Mycroft's bishop with as much malevolence he could put into the action.

Holmes leant back in his chair and folded his arms, his right hand cupping his opposite elbow defensively. He glowered at his brother with his resolute eyes and frowned. "I know you've already worked out why I'm like this."

"I would like to hear you say it yourself"

"Why? You know, I know. Enough said. Now play the goddamn game." Holmes spat, and Mycroft slowly leant forward and placed his brother in check once more. Holmes was silent for a bit. "It doesn't need to be said. And it isn't important right now."

"I'd say it was pretty important if it kills you." Mycroft said quite casually, setting himself back in his chair. He tilted his head forward and looked through his brow at the lanky young man opposite. "Mother would never forgive me."

Holmes said nothing, but stared at the board with half lidded eyes, massaging his forehead.

Mycroft continued. "Are you addicted?"

"No."

"When was the last time you had some?"

"It was… 3 months ago." Holmes said, closing his eyes and rubbed his tired eye sockets.

The game continued without another word. All that was heard was the gentle tap of stone on wood as the pieces were moved expertly around the board; attacks were executed, counters were put into play, interesting gambits were used. Holmes was getting quite lost in the game when his brother spoke.

"Dinner is in half an hour. Do you think we'll finish in time?"

"We can always leave it set up. Check." Holmes replied as he calmly placed his queen on a diagonal to Mycroft's king. Silence ensued until Mycroft sat back coolly.

"Clearly, chemistry isn't enough to stimulate your mind; otherwise you wouldn't be taking the cocaine during term time."

It was the first time the name of Holmes' vice had been mentioned between them for nearly two years, and Sherlock was surprised at the effect the word had from him when it came from his brother. It was said with so much distaste, Mycroft had virtually spat it out. "Am I right?"

Holmes leant back and stretched out his long back as he rested the nape of his neck on the back of his chair, trying to ignore Mycroft's last comment.

"I am. I know you Sherlock; I've known you all your life."

"Well of course you have. But let's not split hairs over the length of time being in someone's presence and knowing a person." Holmes smiled as he watched Mycroft fall into his devious trap on the chessboard. "For Sherrinford has technically known me for exactly the same amount of time and probably couldn't tell you what my favourite colour is."

Mycroft cocked his head to the side. "You don't have a favourite colour."

Holmes laughed, his melancholic mood lifted somewhat. "Exactly. Sherrinford would try and guess. Because," Holmes tapped the side of his nose. "He doesn't know me."

Sherlock then placed his final piece to complete his ruse and looked at Mycroft. "Checkmate."

Mycroft smiled. "Good game." And held out his hand for Holmes in defeat, who took it and gave it a triumphant shake. They began to put all the pieces back to their original places and Mycroft spoke quietly. "I always like to think that chess is a good analogy for the mind. The chessboard is the brain, the housing for the pieces which are not dissimilar to the faculties within our heads. The pieces all have a set thing to do, but when used in a certain way can be a powerful attack force, stimulating to the last." He paused and looked at Holmes, who was looking intently back. "But if you don't find a way to use those pieces to your advantage, you will be in for an exceptionally dull game."

The two brother's sat in silence for the remaining free time, Holmes feigning to read his book. But Mycroft could see that his metaphor had struck a chord with his little brother, albeit a little excessive in its imagery. His brother had all the tools to be phenomenal, he just needed to be put in the right direction.

And Mycroft knew chemistry would be nothing more than a pastime.

Holmes unfurled himself from his chair and picked up the side table to put in back in its place. With a swift movement he had replaced the table, put back his book and was making his way out of the library.

"Where you heading off to?" Mycroft asked as he got up, stretching his back.

"I think I'll go and get ready for dinner." Holmes gave his brother a glimmer of a reassuring smile and made his way to his room.

"I see you've grown quite accustomed to that pipe."

Sherlock looked up from his book and saw that his brother had addressed him from the outer door from the living room. Sherlock removed the cherry wood pipe from his mouth, inspected it before replacing it without a fuss and continued to read his book whilst replying to Sherrinford's comment.

"I don't understand this blessed family's inability to listen to me when I say I find the whole concept of birthdays repugnant." He mumbled. He then eyed Sherrinford who had set himself down opposite him with the newspaper.

"You're not _still _het up about that, are you?"

Sherlock silently threw mental daggers at his brother's head.

"Thought being away at university would get you out of having to even acknowledge it?" Sherrinford smiled, one eyebrow cocked. "Really, you must have realised you would have come home at _some _point. And we certainly remember the day you decided to _grace _the world with your presence."

Holmes ignored the obvious sarcasm that was oozing from every syllable. "Whose idea was it?" he said, slowly turning a page of his book of 'Chemical compounds: Similarities at the elemental level.'

"The pipe?"

Holmes hummed a noise sounding a yes.

"Mother's, I think… or mine… I can't really remember how it came about."

Holmes muttered something under his breath that only he could hear.

"Pardon?" Sherrinford said flopping down the paper onto his knees.

"I said 'Trust you'. I detest presents. And you damn well know it."

Sherrinford put up the broadsheet once more "language…" he said in a stern voice, but his face spread into a childish smirk, knowing he had ruffled Sherlock's feathers quite nicely. After a while, the sound of the sideboard clock was all that was heard, loud and clunky as the pendulum heavily swung from side to side, putting a strain on the mechanism. The late summer sun was beginning to be eclipsed by the threatening cloud, its light clawing around the foaming forms to try and touch the emerald green of the meadows and fields below. It had been a sultry day, and the clouds were beginning to accumulate upwards into a tower of ominous cumulonimbus on the horizon.

"Are you coming to see charlotte off tomorrow?" Sherrinford suddenly broke the silence folding his paper over.

"No."

"You replied to that quickly. Consider it at least." Sherrinford frowned at the spine of the book that had taken so much of his brother's attention.

"Well, it's the same answer I gave mother, charlotte and father."

Sherrinford snorted. "I really don't understand you. It's as if you don't want to be a part of this family."

Holmes again said nothing. Sherrinford put down his paper with a flurry and stalked out of the room.

Holmes closed his book and placed it on the floor next to his chair. He got up, stretched and took the pipe from his mouth before proceeding to tap out the tobacco in the bowl on the lower wall. Looking out over the expanse of green land synonymous with Ireland and the contrasting reddening sky of evening, he couldn't help wish for the next 3 weeks to hurry and pass so he can finally make his way to England. Then he could make the final decision whether he would miss his excitable clan after all.


End file.
